#and yet. and YET

[inquisimer]

For arlow and viago 😭 ❛ i don’t want to understand, i want you to stay. ❜

THANK YOUUUUUUU I am ALL up in my feels about them ;-; this is set well pre-canon, right after Arlow is released from (my version of) "how not to get possessed" Crow Edition

Arlow de Riva & Viago | 972 words | cw: implied/referenced torture, child abuse | @dadrunkwriting - veilguard

-

She is ragged, rubbed raw when they dump her on the stoop of Viago's estate. They rap on the door, once, twice, three times, because she could not lift an arm to do it herself. And then they leave her there, shivering and utterly drained, still bleeding where the manacles had held her. Still aching where the Fade had dug its claws into her.

But she is alive. That is more than most of the others can say.

Viago opens the door himself--of course he does, because he does not employ a staff, would not give anyone such access, no matter how thoroughly vetted. She wonders, as a soft string of curses fall from his lips, how they even knew to leave her here. Its location is a closely guarded secret.

(She will never know about the gold and threats exchanged, when first she was taken. As soon as she has passed, he insisted. Not a moment longer.)

His arms are gentle, slotting carefully under her legs and at her shoulders; he is trying to avoid the bruises, the welts, the weeping wounds. If she could find her voice, she would tell him not to bother--there is nowhere that does not ache, in some shape or form. But he is trying, and she focuses on that, rather than how the world spins as he lifts her, carries her down the hallway to a familiar room. It is not hers, but she spends a great deal of time here, being poked and prodded--poisoned--pressed for answers and learning how to describe what he needs to know.

The cot she usually sits on is made up with softer blankets and pillows than is typical. As if it were waiting for her, and knew that she would not be in a state for the harsh, cold crinkle of paper. But that is foolish--there is no one in the estate except Viago, and Viago is not the type to prepare such creature comforts. If her mind were not so muddled--

She blinks, and Viago presses a vial to her lips. He does not need to tell her to drink; she lets him tip it down her throat without hesitation. Bitter elfroot, and acidity. At her side, over her knuckles, and where it is seeping down her temple, blood clots as her skin knits itself back together. Though the gash over her shoulder blade only gets about two-thirds of the way there, and she knows that it will be a scar.

Experimentally, she reaches for it with her magic. It is new, this power within her, and awkward like a third arm, or second tongue. It is also weak, drained by the price the Crows have exacted. But she has paid it--she is alive. She has been judged, and not found wanting.

For once. Perhaps for the last time.

"Stop that," Viago snaps, as if he can sense that she is pushing past limits that have long since been flattened. "You will make it worse."

The tendril of mana blinks out into nothing. He cuts her ruined tunic away, pursing his lips together as each snip reveals bruises, burns, and more ribs than he'd been able to see three weeks ago. But he is not surprised. Necessary, as so many painful things are. When the pain fades, confidence will take root--in confidence, safety.

With short, clinical strokes, he cleans her skin and a tiny sigh parts Arlow's lips. She has nearly forgotten what it is like to be touched with an intention that is kind.

He takes his time. Tends each of the wounds with the appropriate salve, or balm, or serum. His gloved hands are more gentle than they have ever been when he urges her to lean forward, but he offers no apology when he draws the needle through her flesh, sealing another mark into her skin.

When he is finished, he wraps her in fresh clothes and brings her to rest before the fire. Hands her another potion, diluted this time, and gives strict instructions to sip, slowly.

Despite the fire, despite the ghost of his care lingering over her skin, Arlow feels a chill. This is the part where he leaves. She knows--understands, even. So much more than a child should have to. Of all the ways Viago covers his skin, he has never treated her with kid gloves.

She does not want him to leave. But it is not her place to ask him to stay.

Her eyes drift closed; for a moment, her heart stutters, afraid of the darkness that waits behind her lids. But the fire makes it warm and orange; the cold and dank to which she has been relegated remains firmly--if a bit too near--in her memory.

In that halfway place between waking and sleep, she imagines tender hands tucking a blanket around her. Shifting her on the pillow so that her neck will not be so terribly cricked in the morning. It is nice of her mind, to cushion her recovery with such niceties.

Gloved knuckles brush a stray hair back behind her ear. A softness that she will not remember in the morning, nearly gone to the Fade already as she is. Which is why he offers it, of course.

"Well done, parajito," Viago murmurs. She will not remember that, either, or the smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth. When he is stern and exacting in the morning, she will not remember that he was proud of her, or relieved to have her back under his purview.

But that does not change the fact--he is.

He tucks the blanket more snugly under her chin, smooths the wrinkles over her legs. For the first time in three weeks, she is resting easy--and he leaves, for the first time in three weeks, to do the same.

[mxtxfanatic]

The cultivation world: Wei Wuxian is better than us cause we’d never have saved anyone from an unjust death, especially not someone who killed us before.

Jin Guangyao: If people were as good as Wei Wuxian, my clan would never have had the chance to kill him.

Jiang Cheng: Wow, Wei Wuxian really is better than me because he gave me his golden core with no thoughts of repayment or retribution for me leading an army to murder him. I am a clown.

The damn author herself: Wei Wuxian is better than everyone except for his husband, who matches his morality and righteousness.

This fandom for some fucking reason: Actually, not only does Wei Wuxian suck, but he’s just as bad as all the other characters, because why else would they hate him? You can’t hate good people, that’s illegal. Critical analysis is my specialty!

[campbyler]

turns out that listening to [redacted taylor swift song] on loop will do wonders for one’s writing flow

[majimaisms]

[thedeafprophet]

Jamie does try. To lend an ear, an arm, a place to go, for The Manager. As much as they are capable of offering within the confines of their dynamic, and however flawed their approach may be, they try.

Like a droplet of water on a raging forest fire, they try.

But how could they, fresh and flowering, still surface bent, chased by the remnants of surface light, ever be able to comprehend. At least, that's how his perspective shapes it.

They are young, so very young. They couldn't understand.

(How would he even start. He's not the wordsmith here.)

[alphacrone]

i’ve been posting fanfiction to the internet since i was a literal child and i still get weirdly nervous every time i fucking post a new fic it literally never gets easier

[fairyorb]

you ever think about how link and zelda in mc were both just. Kids. they only wanted to have fun in the picori festival and suddenly got thrown into fighting a battle so much bigger than them

[aballadforbarbatos]

dedication to the prank

synopsis: the anti lucifer league has come up with a new prank! the problem is that they need to get in and out of lucifer’s room safely- which means belphie and satan need your help.

pairing: lucifer x reader, kind of, it's similar to my complicated relationship with him, which is: he shows up on the screen and i want to punch him. he comes up in the revival and i spend my whole paycheck trying to get the card, and then play through the entire devilgram immediately. every once in a while i say that i need him anonymously and then say “pretend this is about a respectable guy”. your pov.

word count: 1.5k (excluding the bonus)

you roll your shoulders. check your appearance in the mirror. is your outfit appropriate for this kind of activity?

“you’re distracting lucifer, not participating in a beauty competition.” satan pulls you out of your head, and belphie rolls his eyes.

“do you want the prank to go on, or not?”

there’s grumbles and mumbles, but it seems that the answer is unanimous. yes, they do want the prank to be successful, and yes, they do want to escape unharmed. so in order to do all that, you need to look good so you can keep lucifer’s mind and eyes occupied for long enough.

nah. this shirt is wrong. you briefly entertain the idea of walking into his room without a shirt, but as funny as it might be, it’s not a good idea. you swap it for a tank top with a deep neck. perfect for distracting high ranking demons. you see satan trying to sneak glances all the time, and like father like son, right?

“okay, let’s go.”

the idea is to swap his classical music with death metal. he might end up liking the genre, but you guys figure it’s worth a shot.

satan’s got the disks. he’s cast spells to make him quieter than a cat, but that doesn’t stop him from being visible. belphie’s on the outside to slam something in lucifer’s face in case you guys do get caught. you didn’t see the item. maybe it’s a brick.

you lead the boys down to his room, and take a deep breath. you count to three. and then you knock on his door.

“MC?”

HAH. you should’ve known that he’d immediately know it’s you, because you’re the only person that knocks in this godforsaken house. satan stares at you- in disgust or amazement, you can’t tell.

“can i come in?”

there’s a pause.

“i suppose.”

you enter his room, and immediately sprawl out on his bed. “try to hide your enthusiasm next time.”

lucifer’s eyes follow you, and he eventually turns his whole body to face you. okay. you have his attention. now you just have to keep it. satan sneaks in through the door, his face focused only on the task. you don’t look at him, only on the eldest brother. if things turn dire, you’ll have to pull your trump card, and it’s one that you’re certainly not afraid (read: a little terrified) to use.

“why are you here? what did you need?”

you bounce up from his bed and walk directly into a trap that you know for certain is there. “well i- woah!”

lucifer sighs. “do you plan on walking everywhere in my room?”

“yes!” you say, with a bright smile. satan ducks behind the bed, and with a quick snap of the eldest’s fingers, you fall from the ceiling. he catches you easily, and you’re left staring into his eyes, a little dazed.

“well, i don’t have the time or energy to…” he mumbles something that you can’t quite make out, but when he lets you down and tells you you’re free to move around as you like, you figure he’s disabled the traps- just because you’re in his room, too. you bite your lip, trying hard not to think about how that’s so sweet of him. you also think go forth satan, complete the prank!

“well, i’m not here for any particular reason. it’s just a little quiet in the house today- i guess everyone’s out?- and you weren’t in the office, so i figured you’d be in here!”

“and?”

“we don’t get to spend much time together. is it such a bad thing that i want to spend even a few minutes with you while mammon’s out trying his next “get rich quick” scheme?”

lucifer rubs his temples. you remember when he called that specific brother a hooligan, and try not to smile at the memory. eventually, though, he comes to a decision, and walks to the door, closing it.

“very well. let’s spend some time together, shall we?”

you’re not sure how entertained he is by your mindless chatter, but you do indeed bounce all over the room, keeping yourself animated, trying to ignore the chills running down your spine as he stares at you. it really does feel like he’s reading all your thoughts.

his smile is polite. is he seriously only tolerating you? this is one you’ve seen given to all sorts of demons, ones that you know don’t have any meaning to him, a smile that he gives out of courtesy. satan’s nearly finished his job. you have to do a better job than just a polite smile if he’s going to get out without being seen- especially now that the door’s shut.

you start racking your brains. do you really have to use that trump card of yours?

you move your body towards the wall, so that lucifer’s back is turned to satan’s path back out. okay, now what?

you find yourself biting your lip again. “MC, are you all right?”

you meet his eyes. they’re not particularly worried- instead, they carry a familiar teasing look, and you’d feel annoyed if you weren’t trying to think of alternatives.

“i…”

alternatives that you know don’t exist. there are no alternatives to save the anti-lucifer league, except for this one trump card of yours.

“yes?”

your breath hitches. he tilts your chin up. that certainly doesn’t help. satan’s crouched behind the bed, and he sends a look your way, one that you can barely see, but you know screams do something! a smirk has appeared far too easily on lucifer’s face.

“lucifer…”

“do you have something to say, MC?”

you nod, suddenly becoming acutely aware of his skin against yours. you only really see him with his gloves on. you swallow. do something, MC!

“lucifer, kiss me.”

“there we go,” he murmurs. “i was wondering when you’d come out and say it.”

oh, for- this prideful idiot really thought you’d come into his room for a kiss?! you suddenly feel a lot less bad about the prank. well, it’s a pact order anyway, so he does kiss you, deep and slow. you don’t get to see satan’s reaction because your eyes flutter shut.

you let out a groan. no matter who you lean towards romantically, if anyone at all, lucifer sure knows how to kiss, and he’s working all of that experience onto you. he pulls your body closer to his, and you get a whiff of his cologne.

you’d pact ordered him in a moment born from panic, but judging from the way that his hands squeeze your body and the way that he works his tongue, he would’ve done so even if it was just a normal request.

“lucif-” you try to get his name out, but it’s muffled at best, and soon enough his hands are slipping up your shirt, his touch burning your skin. it’s a good burn, you admit, but it also feels like he’s stretching the definition of kissing a little.

your avatar of pride- because that’s what he is, right? yours, with the pact mark?- lets out the slightest noise that you can barely identify as pleasure, before pulling away. air fills your lungs again. he does not remove his hands.

you’re left still staring into his eyes. they flicker and you swear you can see desire and need in them, for just a split second. lucifer’s lips twitch into a smile.

“good?”

this prick-

your hesitancy to answer seems to be all he needs, but this ego only solidifies your position in the anti-lucifer league. you decide you’ll describe yourself as a martyr to satan and belphie.

“did you want another one?”

his thumb brushes your bottom lip. you’re a martyr. you’re a staunch member of the anti lucifer league.

you nod.

and eventually, after a series of kisses that feel like an attempt to savour this moment with you, you hear something thud against the ground. lucifer’s face transforms from a gentle, content smile into a scowl, which is quite impressive, you have to admit. you look at the floor.

so it was a brick. at least belphie got to use it.

“hey, jackass! let MC go!”

the youngest holds up a second brick and waves it around in a threatening manner.

“belphegor.”

“look at this, satan! lucifer’s holding MC hostage!”

satan’s head pops around the corner, an unimpressed look on his face. “my, my. i wonder what diavolo would think of you imprisoning MC.”

the league has come to rescue you! thank god- you hate looking weak in front of the eldest, but you’re pretty sure that his touch now has you trembling, and lucifer knows it. he roughly pulls your body up against his, and you let out a yelp.

“maybe they don’t want to leave me.”

“belphie, hit him over the head with the brick. multiple times.”

bonus:

later on, after you’d escaped his bedroom, sitting on the couch and watching a movie, you hear a scream. it’s rough around the edges and violently pierces your skull. asmo covers his ears and leans into the couch, his face scrunched up. moments later, a very pissed off demon stomps into the room.

“satan and belphegor.”

“yes, dearest brother?” belphie rubs his eyes and gives lucifer the most devilish smile you’ve ever seen. “what’s wrong?”

“you’re behind this.” he holds up a familiar disc, and satan doesn’t bother to hide his smirk, pleased with the outcome of their antics.

“i don’t know what you’re talking about. maybe you’re suffering from brain damage after the brick?”

his eye twitches. you giggle, and lean over the back of the couch. lucifer’s eyes fixate on you, and you watch the cogs turn in his head. there’s a pretty good chance he’s about to realise the truth of things, and you wonder if you should run. would you even be able to escape him? (no.)

“i see. i always forget there’s a third member of your little hate group.”

he’s quiet as belphie and satan high-five each other. are you going to have to sit through another lecture as compensation? ugh. well, at least it’s better than- uh oh. what’s he doing?

you balk as a smirk replaces his frown and he strides towards you. hey, wait- this isn’t fair- hold on-

“lucifer,” you stammer out, but he’s not listening. he tilts your chin up, recreating the scene in his room, and you’re pretty sure your heart stops. satan and belphie have probably switched to defensive mode, and are effectively telling him to piss off, but it all just sounds like everything’s underwater.

“you want another one, don’t you?”

“i-”

you don’t get a chance to answer- he kisses you quickly, but it’s not a moment he’s trying to savour. no, this one feels like a lesson, rough and passionate and one that leaves you looking absolutely pathetic, panting when he pulls away.

“i’ll kill him!”

he pats himself down, brushing off dust that you can’t quite see. “i’d say that’s an effective enough punishment for the three of you.” his eyes linger on your lips before snapping up to meet your gaze. “although, it looks like one of you enjoyed it a bit too much.”

and with that, he leaves the room, looking quite proud of himself.

you, on the other hand, can’t figure out if this is a win or a loss for the anti-lucifer league.

[albatris]

o fuck I forgot abt the new vampire support group lmao

[llamagoddessofficial]

What's your favourite banana flavour?

dude I just absolutely love banana flavour. Banana is my favourite flavour and also my favourite food of all time

[heatwa-ves]

btw if you make a modern au and you don't give johnny a wheelchair im killing you myself

[badcard]

absolutely crazy to me that husk has the gall the nerve the audacity the ARROGANCE to hit alastor with "big talk for someone who's also on a leash". WHAT. you are going to DIE!!!!

like. why did he say that. what possibly made him think that he could get away with that shit. he's way too comfortable with alastor at this point. and of course he understands the threat that alastor is, it's just he is so used to fucking around and never finding out. husk says whatever he wants to alastor all the damn time and alastor has never once followed through with a threat (i think this is because most of the stuff husk says, alastor does not care about at all) but the leash thing struck a nerve. closest husk has ever come to danger at alastor's hands, even when alastor was calling on him to do odd jobs every now and again.

and what's more husk babe i KNOW you do not like this guy so why are you looking out for him. why are you warning him about his hashtag toxic friendship. he is not listening. and then it turns out that husk is RIGHT. if they hadn't had that spat husk would've pulled an "i told you so" SO fast

[thereareeyesinsidethetrees]

our problem with writing used to be our severe depression and anhedonia, but recently it’s moreso:

‘this is a cool idea, ae like what we’ve got so far!’

‘yeah, we should write it!!’

‘alright we’ve got…sixteen chapters to do, which one should we start with?’

‘what. hey we should work on the aldernic label project’

‘wh- no, ae want to write’

‘oh. that’s too bad. anyway bird list time’

‘can. can ae please- just one sentence? one word? please? can we just write something?’

‘uhh…you can think about writing something’

‘…what the fuck’

[supercantaloupe]

easily the most annoying thing about beethoven 9 is that the finale really actually is as good as everyone makes it out to be.

[boltlightning]

staging an intervention in the google doc